Even Though
by Thalaba
Summary: That same ol' feeling? AU A married Neville and Millicent make time.


bTitle:/b Even Though

bAuthor:/blj user="lady_green_bat"

bRecipient:/blj user="drago_verde"

bPairing:/b Millicent/Neville, Susan/Ron (implied)

bSummary:/b That same ol' feeling?

bWord Count:/b 2300

bWarnings:/b marital fluff, public sex, language

bDisclaimer:/b I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

bAuthor's Notes:/b I absolutely loved your prompts, one of them actually making me laugh out loud. Also, seeing 'silly' and 'romantic' made me happy as I've been heavy on the angst lately. There's a minor shout-out to A:TLAB included. Hope you enjoy!

lj-cut text="Even Though"

Despite rumour to the contrary Millicent Bulstrode loved her husband.

She would never take his last name, for as much as she found great pleasure with ihis/i derrière she had no intention of signing 'Longbottom' for the rest of her life. No matter how often Pansy cursed her a fool for not taking the one advantage she could see to shackling herself to "that pudgy war hero," Millicent was born a Bulstrode and she would die a Bulstrode. She was the last of her kind after all, and, while they didn't deserve her consideration, the former Slytherin believed she owed something to her long line of upper-crust ancestors.

She had been overheard by many a well-meaning witch openly criticising Professor Longbottom's personal collection of tentacle ferns, edible herbs, and potted Mimbulus Mimbletonia (the largest single assortment of the cacti-derivative found in the United Kingdom) complaining frequently that the various flora was turning her quaint English cottage into a South American jungle. At work Millicent often appeared sporting bits and pieces of greenery in her thick black locks, stubborn lantern jaw and luscious pinched lips proclaiming her frustration at finicky plant life she was expected to protect while the true owner spent most of his time interacting with teenagers who wouldn't be able to recite the ten healing properties of watercress if nine of them were already given.

His grandmother just wouldn't bloody die! As uncharitable as the thought was towards the woman who had raised the love of her life, helping him to become the man he was, the decrepit meddling crone was driving her to drink. Incessant demands on her grandson's time as well as for great-grandchildren that were just bnot/b going to come; Yule presents that consisted of ancient hats and drool; frequent blunt comments on issues of weight: Millicent had transformed herself into a hobbyist in order to avoid tedious Sunday brunches and holiday charity work with Augusta and other pillars of Gryffindor matronhood. She never would have thought that mousy Susan Bones would have similar problems with Molly Weasley or that the two of them would commiserate over target shooting on the moors. Her aim had never been better.

Same old signature. More plants than furniture. Living grandmother-in-law.

"What is it Millie?"

Neville regarded his wife with an affectionately wry expression as they danced at the Ministry Gala. She was beautiful—utterly delectable in shimmering fuchsia fabric that fell like water over his calloused hands but was only a minor addition to the variety of attributes he found absolutely wonderful about her—and had been watching the proceedings with quiet approval most of the evening. Now she had an odd little smile on her face, looking at him but saying nothing. "Millie?"

"Do stop it Neville."

He chuckled softly at her irritation at pet names. What did Neville know, poor husband that he was, about a woman's awareness when seemingly off in their own dreamland? They stepped into a turn, the orchestra in fine form tonight, and continued to look at one another.

Millicent was not at all the type of woman Neville would have picked out for himself as a growing adolescent. It took many years to realize that the calm, optimistic, maternal female of the species was simply not for him. No demure, night blooming flower, his wife was vivacious, opinionated, and determined. Perfectionist? Yes, she'd left many a junior trainee cringing in her potions shop on Diagon Alley—a premiere supplier to Hogwarts and Durmstrang. Blunt? She'd told the presiding wizard on their wedding day that there was no way in Helga Hufflepuff hell she would be taking Neville's last name. Murderer? Not yet, though sometimes Neville had to wonder about the tea served to his Grandmother. She was wholly against the idea of bearing children yet kept at least a dozen cats that clawed and ate his plants with near vengeful regularity. . .

"Millicent, what are you thinking?" Neville tried again. "Do I have a bit of spinach in my teeth?" That brought her out of whatever world she had momentarily inhabited, dark brows furrowing slightly at his query. He raised an eyebrow, attempting just a hint of the imperiousness of which she was capable. Millicent snorted—the expected reaction.

"I iwas/i imagining something pleasant with a gentleman of my acquaintance," she tossed her hair, pausing conversation to neatly side-step a couple arguing over footwork sequence and how a man's foot definitely did not belong on top of a woman's. "But I don't believe I'll tell you now."

"That's hardly fair," he sniffed, eyes sparking. "It's my night you realize, and I should be privy to all interactions involving my wife and strange gentlemen. I don't know where you'd find one amongst our friends though." Her ruby lips curved slowly, infinitesimally, dark eyes warm as she brought an elegant hand up to lightly caress the medal affixed to his formal black dress robes. Order of Merlin, third class. In recognition of superb work done in duty to his country, profession, and in saving the lives of over forty students when an unknown strain of Penta Pox had infected Hogwarts last term. Millicent could not have been more proud if she had been the one to discover the cure.

"Life's not fair," her fingers glided over his chest to the strong sinew of Neville's throat, moving further to play with the dark hair that rested upon his nape. "And don't let all that hero nonsense go to your head. I'm the one who picks up all your dirty under things when you've conveniently misplaced them." Another hearty chuckle worked it's way up and Neville leaned in close, brushing his nose along Millicent's cheek while one large hand smoothed over her waist, down to her hip.

"I take no responsibility for that dear, especially since you're the one so quick to remove—" He stopped, forehead a hairsbreadth from smacking against his wife's, and his own cheeks quickly reddening with an unbecoming blush. "Millicent," he whispered urgently, hand practically stuck and very unsure on the upper curve of her generous backside. "Are you. . .I don't believe you're wearing any small clothes!" Millicent gave him a chaste peck, nodding politely to a passing dancing pair while skilfully manoeuvring a hand between herself and her husband, giving Neville's equally generous parts a firm squeeze.

"You're brilliant Neville," she replied lightly, repressing a girlish grin at how his limbs constricted, his indrawn breath and widened stare. "I'm sure that's why I married you." She trailed crimson nails over his abdomen, sneaking in through places between buttons to attend very pale flesh so different from his tanned arms and shoulders.

"Millicent! People are staring!"

"And so they should. You have the most beautiful woman in the room on your arm."

"That goes without saying but—" she pinched him, eliciting a jump and a squeak which really made some people stare. "Millicent!" he admonished, unbelievably aroused by his wife's actions yet frustrated that she would choose bnow/b and bhere/b of all places to tease him. "Just what are you hoping to achieve?"

"Not so smart now, are we professor." Now came the truly imperious eyebrow and Neville swallowed back an exclamation as her fingers continued to enliven.

"Here?"

"It's perfect, don't you think?"

They had. . .iexperimented/i twice before with the idea of public. . .iexperimentation/i. There was a gorgeous forest near a cobbled street of row houses near the ancestral Bulstrode estate where Millicent had first implied she would not be adverse to shagging him senseless upon the fallen birch leaves and mossy undergrowth. However, a colony of ants took exception to their vigorous antics, putting a halt to any amorous activities for several weeks as both recovered from a variety of painful, clustered bites. The second time had proceeding much better, Millicent seated topped Neville's lap on a bench in a rarely occupied section of Hyde Park with his mouth put to good use on her bountiful bosom. While neither had an aversion to being spotted by unknown Muggles, it was quite embarrassing to be found out by a group of young Gobstopper enthusiasts, chaperoned by two of Neville's recently graduated students. Millicent still received the odd anonymous Valentine every year, much to Neville's chagrin. But ihere/i? In the Ministry of Magic? Where they had been rubbing shoulders with political hotheads and former schoolmates all evening, who had nearly all gone out of their way to congratulate Neville, to pull him aside for a handshake or quick conversation?

"Now," Millicent grasped his hand, "before the music stops."

She had been considering her handsome husband throughout all the various speeches and dinner courses and other awards of the night, and quite naturally her mind had meandered from the topic of 'Quick Witted and Assured Professor Neville Longbottom' to 'Broad Backed Thick Fingered Sweaty in the Sun Professor Neville Longbottom.' With such a crowd and dozens-ihundreds!/i-of hallways, passageways, and various crannies to hide away in, Millicent couldn't wait to get into Neville's knickers.

"What—Where are we going dear?"

If Millicent hadn't loved him so much or found the nervous question coming from such a tall, bulky form so endearing, she would have damned him for a pea wit. Or at the very least rolled her eyes.

"I don't know dear," she stopped, purposely obtuse. "Why don't you tell mEE—Neville!"

Caught off guard and nearly caught up in her own dress, Millicent didn't know whether to hex her husband or laugh at the frantic picture he presented, pressing her firmly against the wall of a tiny alcove and pulling the filmy curtain firmly shut. She kissed his jaw, his chin, her excitement growing at Neville's spontaneity.

Neville glanced not a little anxiously through the pewter fabric while Millicent's hands busied themselves oh so cleverly with his trouser buttons. "Oh Merlin," he gasped into her perfumed throat as her palm met his engorged flesh. Hunger for his wife had played very little in dragging her into this entirely inappropriate place, directly between the ballroom and buffet. Neville would have jumped into a pit of dung beetles than have to endure another speech from Undersecretary Percy Weasley on how his skills with exotic flora would be 'precisely perfect in the training of future Aurors.' The bespectacled redhead had been headed in the amorous couple's direction, forcing Neville to take drastic action.

"Neville," Millicent moaned despite Neville's hushing, roughly planting one of his hands onto her heaving breast while undoing the lower clasps of her robe. "Come on love. . .Yes, yes, right there. Fuck you're so sweet—" As hot as it was to hear Millicent curse, Neville simply had to shut her up, having troubles enough of his own staying silent, what with one of her hands pumping his cock and the other pulling wantonly at his hair. The bvery/b determined Millicent Bulstrode had already taken care of his trousers but Neville wasn't merely going to thrust in and have at it; while their mouths met fiercely he used dexterous fingers to open and dip inside her silky-wet folds, manipulating the nub of her sex until her mound was rocking into the heel of his hand, persistent noises slipping through their involved lips.

"We'll never be invited back if you can't be quiet," Neville murmured, only partly serious, lifting one of Millicent's legs to wrap awkwardly over his exposed hip, the small space preventing all but the most necessary movement. She neatly bit his earlobe, not the least bit apologetic as her nails dug into the meat of his waist.

"Fuck me like you did on our honeymoon."

Millicent was rewarded with the sight of a full bodied flush; from the top of his hairline and travelling beneath his starched collar, Neville's skin bloomed, and she smiled wickedly at the shared remembrance, inhaling as he moved forward to push inside. He had been so eager in that little room near Skara Brae, whitecaps crashing lazily against the rocky northern shoreline and she playing the seductress in an impulsively purchased black velvet corset, not realizing until that moment how much of an animal her new husband could be.

They moved together in a steady rhythm, hot breath on the other's face and moans buried in the other's shoulder as their hips worked feverishly towards one goal. Dignitaries and various personalities walked back and forth mere feet from their position, the clink of silverware melding with the strains of violins and a harpsichord, and through the rush of blood singing through her veins Millicent realized Neville was timing his harder thrusts with that of the cymbal. Kissing his throat with husky yearning, Millicent privately thanked whatever Cornish Pixie or mispronounced spell that had brought her to this wonderfully exasperating man.

Neville dragged a thumb raggedly over one covered nipple and felt Millicent's body shiver and flex, her inner muscles grasping onto him and dragging out his release with such painful intimacy Neville could do nothing but lean completely on his wife, mouthing her exposed shoulder while one of her hands moved soothingly over his head. Merlin, she was fantastic, more than he would have ever hoped for himself. All his. "All mine."

They cleaned up with a soft flick of a wand and tender looks, while clothing was rearranged and brows patted, make-up retouched. Neville waited a full minute before stepping back out into the hall, Millicent's arm linked with his own, and appearing for all the world as if they were simply strolling towards the lavish dinner tables for another glass of champagne.

"Oi Neville!"

Both tuned towards the sound of an Irish lilt, Seamus snatching a sandwich as he greeted the pair. "Percy's been inna fit lookin' fer ya—Oi, thar he is!"

"We should have gone home," Neville spoke through a plastered smile, not appreciating Millicent's snicker in the least.

"If I can handle your grandmother, surely you can handle Percy Weasley."

"My Grandmother loves you!"

"Mm hmm."


End file.
